He did it for the love of the kill.

Quietly and quickly he moved through the thicket of the woods, waving his flashlight around in front of him. He could hear her panting, scrambling through the underbrush. Leaves crackled under her weight as she blindly ran ahead. A small smile touched the corners of his lips from under the thick ski mask. 'Shes running from me,' he thought proudly to himself, zipping up his hunting jacket.

Following in her wake, he heard a scream, some stumbling then her sobbing and scrambling stop. He frowned at the thought she may have gone and killed herself. What a way to ruin the hunt. He couldn't be sure how far away she had been when she fell, so he continued on. The thick beam of light protruding from his flashlight thoroughly scanned the vicinity. She was nowhere to be seen beyond the small dip in the surface.

'Maybe she's playing hide-and-seek instead of tag,' he assumed. Moving to the right, he pulled out his cellphone and scanned through his phonebook. Finding 'victim numero uno', he calls. Within seconds her phone goes off to the right, the song 'don'cha' blaring into the quiet nightlife.

"Bingo," he whispers. He can hear her whimpering, trying to shut the ringer off. But she's already too late by the time she does. She's been caught like a deer in headlights. He knows she won't dare move, but that's okay. He can practically smell her he's so close. The crunching of the leaves under his boots suddenly come to a halt.

Just as she goes to peek around the tree trunk, he cocks his rifle and aims it at her face. She doesn't even muster a scream before the bullet penetrates her skull. And he turned and left her there, walking back the way he came.

It would be days before anyone would find her, and by then the wildlife would've taken most of her. And as autumn continues to settle, more of nature's brown, orange and red hued leaves will fall. A makeshift grave for a whore.

The next quarter moon would fall victim to another blood-red autumn night.